


I dream of hair flying in the wind, but you don't care

by royallieu



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Based of S8 'Leaks', Based on a Tumblr Post, F/M, Jealousy, Pining, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 08:05:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18069674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/royallieu/pseuds/royallieu
Summary: Jon grows suspicious of Theon’s salt wife.





	I dream of hair flying in the wind, but you don't care

It was probably meant to be a passing comment when the Hand had brought it up, yet it remained with him longer than Jon cared to admit.

 

“His sister says that he offers assistance where he can, but he seems to have taken to a simpler life,” Tyrion explained, playing absentmindedly with Dany’s letter opener; sunlight danced off the edge, holding with it some small promise of warm evenings and bountiful harvests. “Out with politics and in with domestic life. Well, his loss, I suppose.”

 

Dany frowned, pausing to drink from her ornate goblet. “We’ve no news of any marriage from the Iron Islands.”

 

“That’s because there is none. Theon Greyjoy’s playing house with a salt wife, that’s why.”

 

 _His salt wife._ It was a word barely ever used now, let alone heard. Jon must’ve come across it sometime before the Wall had fallen, but even then it was hardly a thing worth mulling over.

 

“The ironborn aren’t meant to keep any salt wives,” he pointed out. “If Theon has one, it means he’s dishonoured his sister’s oath.”

 

The Hand shook his head. “Oh, I don’t mean he’s got one in the strictest sense of the word. His mistress, if you will. A warm body to press up against at night so as to stave off the damn cold.”

 

It was a strange picture to wrap his head around, the idea of Theon living peacefully in a cottage somewhere on one of the islands, perhaps tending to the upkeep of his ship during the day before heading home to stretch his legs out before the fire as he sat in a worn chair. She was present as well, his salt wife—her face cast in the shadows so that Jon may never know what she truly looked like—mending her lover’s tunic, inquiring about his day, what kind of progress he’d made with his repairs. It _was_ a simpler life, just as Tyrion had pointed out. Far simpler than his, he thought, in a sudden fit of jealousy; Jon would rather retire to a grey, sparse island with little to no company than remain amongst those he had to surround himself with while he played prince consort to his conquering wife.

 

He wanted to blame his circumstances on someone else, but he was only more the fool for doing so. His fate was his own making. 

 

“Did you catch her name?” he asked, surprising himself and those present. The corners of Dany’s eyes hardened, but the Hand merely shrugged.

 

“Maybe it was given, but I’ve long forgotten it. Something plain and meager, I think, if my memory serves me well. If Theon didn’t kidnap her, then she must be there of her own accord. Not really much to work with in the bedchamber, I suppose, but that does shed some light on her character. Wouldn’t you agree?”

 

It _was_ revealing. Either this woman had no use for intimacy, or she longed for something else—something meaningful. Jon mulled over the way Theon used to brag about his conquests; imagined, despite his efforts not to, a busty dame with the vivacity of a thousand suns, a throaty voice with enough charm to seduce whomever she wanted. It didn’t make sense, though, a woman like that choosing a life of isolation. Someone more demure then, he concluded, who had seen more than she ever wanted to. Someone who wanted to hide,

 

Jon thought of wavy strands of red hair dancing lightly in the wind, a warm burst of colour amongst the desolate backdrop of the Iron Islands. He clamped down on it mercilessly.

 

* * *

 

They sang songs about him, declared him a hero never to be surpassed, but his failures were never more obvious than when he looked upon her statue. 

 

There were actually two of them. One lived in Winterfell’s crypts, standing silently next to Arya’s, keeping a vigilant watch over those who entered their domain. Both are lovingly tended to—Jon made sure of that. But there was another effigy deep in the bowels of the Red Keep; Dany couldn’t argue against it even if she wanted to. If he must swallow the idea that Sansa perished in the capital, then it was only right to mark her place of death, even if her tomb remained empty.

 

Jon knew too well why his wife was so adamant against the effigy, but it was meant to be a punishment for them both. _She might have been alive still if I hadn’t listened to you,_ he could have said aloud, but never did. Dany was grateful for his silence, this he was well aware, but he refused to bury what could not be forgotten, either. They both had their own graves to live in, now that they’d gone and dug it.

 

He would never know what sufferings she had endured under Cersei’s hand; there had been no details on her imprisonment. Sansa was to remain a ward to the crown, the letter had declared, to keep them complacent. It wouldn’t have worked, had he not been so taken with Dany’s pleas, those of which had been brushed with Tyrion’s own persuasions.

 

In the throws of the Long Night, Jon had completely forgotten that power had been at the forefront of their minds. He realized, far too late in the game, that he couldn’t have both. Jon couldn’t protect a sister and his queen with the same strength—just the mere attempt would have torn him completely into two. One had to give out over the other.

 

The light from his torch threw Sansa’s face into relief, colouring her hair with a shade reminiscent to what it could have been in real life. His cousin stood tall and proud, furs draped over her shoulders, eyes seeing right past him. Had she died thinking he would come, or had she known differently? It cuts him deeply, when he lets his mind ponder on the possibility that she might’ve resigned herself to her fate, extinguished the hope that he would come and save her. There was enough self-loathing to fill his veins to stop the blood flowing through him, yet he continued breathing, while Sansa remained dead, her corpse lying only gods knew where. But what was the point of living when he hated himself so, when his guilt and shame barely left room for anything else, not even love?

 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

 

“Will you ever forgive me?” he asked, staring into her hollow eyes. Sansa might have answered, for all he knew, but the silence had likely drowned it.

 

* * *

 

Dragonstone was the closest haven he could escape to when the North remained out of reach. Jon took solace walking through the battlement that stretched across the crags, sometimes counting the number of stairs he took up or down, letting his mind sweep over harmless matters: Sam’s growing brood, the merchant ships carrying Myrish silk and Arbor gold into Blackwater Bay, how the colour and climate of his surroundings weren’t so different from the Iron Islands. There was Theon Greyjoy and his self-imposed isolation—but not too isolated, because there was still that salt wife of his.

 

He was surprised to find his jealousy intact.

 

* * *

 

When they finally crossed paths again, it was because they both happened to be visiting Winterfell—what remained, at least. It will take Dany half a dozen letters and one royal command before he’ll return south again; until then, Jon would reacquaint himself with the North, let the cold seep inside his bones.

 

Theon’s hair had grown out, together with his beard. Jon wrapped his arms around his friend with only the barest trace of ill-will, could smell the salt that clung to the ironborn’s skin. There was the faintest hint of something else, too; something gentler, sweet. He was convinced he only recognized it because of the number of times he’d lain with his wife, but there was another layer to it that hearkened to someone else, only he couldn’t decide who.

 

Jon remembered the faceless woman again, the one that Theon lived with on that lonely island of his. The thought wasn’t supposed to hurt as much as it did.

 

He wouldn’t stay long, Theon promised; there were matters to attend to on behalf of his sister, and once that was fulfilled he would be off again. It wasn’t surprising; there were probably too many ghosts to fend off still, too many memories that time could not yet soften.

 

Bran remained listless in Theon’s presence, but the ironborn was undeterred; he fell to his knees to hug him, remained on the ground as he inquired on his health and well-being.

 

“I promise you won’t suffer me for too long,” he said. His tone was meant to be light-hearted, but Jon didn’t miss the nervous tremor in the ironborn’s voice.

 

“Yes,” Bran agreed, with the merest nod. “You mustn’t linger too long here, not when she is so lonely while you remain gone.”

 

Theon frowned. “Bran?”

 

“The one you left at the Lonely Light. The one who waits for you.”

 

His gaze dashed towards Theon, his own curiosity re-ignited. Had he just witnessed a flash of panic on his face?

 

“Yes, yes of course. You’re right,” Theon mumbled. His mind was trying to make sense of Bran’s knowledge, Jon observed, watching as the ironborn got to his feet. It was possible he only just realized that his private life wasn’t as private as he wanted to believe.

 

Theon, though, was not the only one slightly shaken by Bran’s words; Jon knew too well that anything he chose to remark on had a deeper meaning to it, an intent. What did Bran know about this woman? What exactly had he seen when he let his mind wander beyond himself?

 

What were they _both_ hiding from him?

 

He curled his fingers tightly into a fist. “What is your companion’s name?”

 

Hesitation bloomed on Theon’s weather-beaten face. His own stomach clenched.

 

“I call her Jeyne.”

 

Jon narrowed his eyes. “Why? What does everyone else call her?”

 

Theon dropped his gaze. “Forgive me, it’s not what I meant. There is no one else. We don’t keep much company. Oh, but there is a cat she is rather fond of—he’s grown so large, probably because she keeps feeding it more than she ought to…”

 

“It sounds awful,” he cut in, eager to stop Theon from his rambling. He _was_ hiding something.

 

“Maybe to some,” the ironborn replied, slowly. “But we much enjoy it for now.”

 

His anger flared. He couldn’t stand the way Theon’s cracked lips had wrapped themselves so tenderly around _we._

 

“Suppose I ordered you to court, the both of you,” he retaliated. “I think it would be good for your salt wife to see more of the world beyond the island you’ve abandoned her on.”

 

Jon wanted to take pleasure in Theon’s sharp inhale, the way his eyes grew wide with worry; it only served to feed the horror growing inside of him, yet he didn’t understand where it had crawled out from.

 

“I’ve not abandoned her,” Theon said, his eyes downcast. “Believe me, that’s already been done many times over.”

 

It was like the snap of a whip across his cheek. “What do you mean by that?”

 

Theon shook his head. “It…it means nothing.”

 

“It means nothing,” he mimicked, his tone thick with vitriol. “Alright then, Theon, tell me something I’m dying to know: how do the two of you pass the time with nothing to do and no one to see?”

 

Jon couldn’t explain his anger. He only knew that he was getting closer to something, a terrible truth that had evaded him for too long.

 

Theon stared at him. “We…we just do. We find things to keep us occupied. The cottage often needs mending because of the storms, but I like the work. And she—Jeyne, I mean—she finds things to amuse herself as well. The cat, you see—”

 

“She likes to embroider.”

 

He whipped his head towards his cousin. Bran remained stoic.  

 

“I can see she’s very talented with embroidery,” he continued, without any persuasion. “When you’re not there she spends much of her time planning, because she wants to make you something that you’ll remember her by when you’re apart.”

 

“Jeyne does like to embroider,” he heard Theon say, but Jon kept his eyes fixed squarely on Bran. Images were running through his cousin’s mind; he so desperately wanted to shake them out of him.

 

“You haven’t just come North to settle matters on behalf of your sister, Theon. You’ve come because you want to buy things for her that you can take back with you. Cloth. Spools of thread. You want to make her happy. You want her to make things you can keep close to your heart. Just like the linen you carry beneath your doublet.”

 

Another sharp inhale from Theon. Jon turned his face towards him.

 

“Is it true? Do you have it?”

 

There was no doubting the panic in Theon’s eyes now; he swallowed, his gaze darting between one Stark and the other.

 

“I do,” he confessed.

 

His heart was beating loudly in his ears. The fire in the hearth snapped cruelly.

 

“Show me.”

 

Theon didn’t act at once; his mind seemed to have drifted elsewhere, lips slightly ajar, as if he might protest. Slowly his gloved hand moved to unbuckle the leather strap across his chest—a small struggle, no doubt, what with some of his fingers missing. It appeared eventually, a sand-hued piece of linen that Theon gently balled in his hands, as if for fear of injuring it. And then it struck him, just like that: he’d been gentle with Lady too, when they’d first found all the newborn pups; cradling her in the crook of his arm while they walked away from the animal corpses.

 

For all of his bravado, Theon had always been capable of tenderness.

 

The ironborn extended his arm, offering Jon the linen. He took it from him wordlessly, fingers trembling as he slowly unfolded the cloth.

 

He thought he’d find a direwolf embroidered into the fabric, but it was actually a ship; the proportions slightly off, but rendered well enough that he knew immediately what it was.

Jon didn’t need to be told that Sansa was alive. He knew it from the embroidery alone, how it came to life under her deft fingers; he could see the curve of her smiling mouth in the outline of the boat, picture the smooth expanse of her pale skin in the white sails. She didn’t need to sign her name for him to know that the work was hers; Sansa was encapsulated in the design in a way he couldn’t explain, but it was there, her character and her spirit.

 

His eyes caught something on a corner of the linen. A phrase had been stitched along the edges in black thread; as he read it, Jon realized for the first time why he had once thought of copper-red hair dancing in the wind against the cold, desolate backdrop of the Iron Islands.

 

“Are you in love with her?” he asked, his voice hardly above a whisper. It was a strange thing to inquire about, but he felt like he would die if he didn’t know.

 

Theon answered just as softly. “We love each other as much as we’re capable of.”

 

“You didn’t answer my question.” Jon raised his head, staring into Theon’s eyes. “Are you in _love_ with her?”

 

The weight of his silence was excruciating.

 

“Yes.”

 

So it was that their rivalry remained, even if it was only an echo of what it had been. But for all the fortune that had befallen him, the honour and the glory, Jon realized he was still on the losing end.

 

* * *

 

Title inspired [“Un Amour au Super U”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wP8aLlLrqbQ) by Lewis Ofman. I’d love to hear from you guys what you think about this—it’s been a seriously long time since I've written anything, so I apologize for being hella rusty. The next chapter will be in Sansa’s POV; for all those who have read my other stories, you already know what you’re in for. Thank you for reading!

 


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